


Lonely Lullaby

by Jeni27



Series: Sherlock and Molly Through the Years [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Kid!Lock, Mr. Hooper (mentioned), Mr. and Mrs. Holmes (mentioned), Mrs. Hudson (mentioned) - Freeform, OC's - Freeform, They're so sweet, This universe is so au, it's not even funny, lots of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeni27/pseuds/Jeni27
Summary: Sequel to "Little Wonders." Read that first. Sherlock is trying to get away from everyone when he hears the piano playing in the music room.  Molly just doesn't want to get caught.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize it, it’s not mine. Also, shout-out to lilsherlockian1975 for her amazing beta skills and putting up with me!
> 
> Some of you asked for a continuance from “Little Wonders.” I hope this meets your expectations.

** Lonely Lullaby **

****

_“Symphony of silver tears,_ _/ Sing to me and sooth the ring in my ears,  
Overcast these gloomy nights wear on, / But I'm holding fast because it's darkest just before the dawn.”_

_~Owl City, ‘Lonely Lullaby’_

 

     Sherlock was twelve when he saw her again, though he didn’t recognize her.  His parents had dragged him to some birthday party for a child of an acquaintance of theirs.  Keeping up appearances within their social set was important for some reason. 

 

     He hated it.  There was just too much noise and stimulus from all the running around and giggling.  Then there were the sneers from the other children he would receive when they thought he wasn’t looking.  It wasn’t his fault that he was so much more brilliant than them.  It wasn’t his fault that he could deduce what the adults were truly up to behind their congenial facades.  (Though he would admit that he probably shouldn’t have pointed out to Jeremy and Jasmine Elstmeyer, the birthday boy and girl, that his mother was sleeping with the gardener.) 

 

     The ensuing scuffle from that little exchange had him walking through the house by himself and avoiding all human contact.  It was his wanderings that had him coming across the music room.  A grand piano sat in a prominent position in the room, a harp nearby.  A large fireplace took up one side of the wall, and couches and chairs faced the instruments.  Sunlight streamed through the large window behind the instrument, and made a sort of halo around the child that was seated there.

 

     She sat on the bench, her feet barely reaching the pedals as she played a tune that he recognized, though he couldn’t quite place it.  She was decidedly younger than the other children running around.  Her brown hair was in plaited pigtails that ran down to the middle of her back and were tied off on her head with pink and red ribbons that matched her cherry printed pink party dress. 

 

     He leaned against the doorway watching her as she got lost in her music.  As he listened, he realized that she was quite accomplished.  The concerto she played was advanced for one so young.  He wasn’t sure if even he had ever been able to play that well at her age, and he had been playing the violin since he was four.

 

     She reached a crescendo and brought her music crashing through the room, her eyes closed as she seemingly became one with the music.  She brought the music down into a slower movement, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his cheeks.  He quickly wiped his face, not wanting anyone to see.  He was too old to cry, besides his brother was always telling him that emotion was a hindrance to the logical mind.  What would Mycroft think of him if he knew this little scrap of a girl had brought him to tears with just music. 

 

     _‘Right.  Well.  That’s enough of that,’_ he told himself standing from his position.  He started sarcastically clapping, startling her.  Wide brown eyes looked at him in fear, and she scrambled from her seat.

 

     “I… I’m sorry.  I know I wasn’t supposed to be in here,” she fidgeted with her hands and looked to the floor.  “It’s just that everyone else is…” her voice trailed off, never finishing her thought, and her eyes darted around the room, no doubt looking for an escape route.  The door was behind him though, and she would have to scramble around him to get to it.

 

     Having enough of his intense stare, she stepped forward as if to leave when he said, “How old are you?” 

 

     Her answer was eloquent in the extreme. “Huh?”

 

     “Judging by your speech patterns, you can’t be more than eight, though your height suggests that you’re closer to five.” 

 

     She scowled at him. “I…”

 

     “Your practice at the piano, however, shows a skill much older than what you look or speak.  So, I ask again: how old are you?”

 

     “I’m…” she was interrupted by a voice in the hall.

 

     “Molly!  Confound it, child!  Where are you?”  They both turned toward the door at the shout, and Sherlock saw the girl’s eyes go wide. 

 

     “Oh, no,” she whispered.  She glanced at him, put her finger to her lips, and swiftly moved to a small cabinet that he had not noticed before.  He should not have been as surprised as he was that she fit into the small crawl space.  He also wondered why she felt it necessary to hide from whomever was calling for her.

 

     He did not have long to ruminate over these things, because the door to the music room, which was only slightly closed to begin with, slammed open.  A wild-eyed maid stood in it, staring at Sherlock as if he was her last hope in the world. 

 

    “Oh,” she stated with a deep sigh, “It’s just you.  What are you doing in here?”

 

     “I was just walk -…”

 

     She didn’t let him finish, waving a hand in the air at him.  “Never you mind.  I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Elstmeyer won’t care one way or t’other.  They know you’re an accomplished musician.”

 

     Sherlock was unsure how to answer that, so he just stared at her.  He supposed she had dismissed his presence after that, since she looked around the room, muttering to herself all the while.  He caught the little girl, who he assumed was Molly, looking out at them.  She shook her head, pleading with her eyes that he not tell where she was. 

 

     He felt like doing it just for spite.  After all, he was just trying to get some peace and quiet, not be dragged into some stupid game.  He opened his mouth to say something, watching the girl the whole while, and noting the glassy sheen her eyes were taking on with a kind of vindictive pleasure, when the maid almost bellowed, “Molly Hooper!  If you don’t come out right now from wherever you are, I will tell your father how very naughty you have been when he comes to get you at the end of the summer!”

 

     Sherlock stopped short.  He recognized that name.  He hadn’t heard it in years, but he definitely knew it.  He looked at the girl again.  She seemed resigned to her fate as she started pushing the cabinet door open.  He made a split-second decision, and before she revealed herself, he moved to stand in front of it. 

 

     Then he addressed the maid. “Nobody has been in here but me these past thirty minutes.” 

 

    The maid looked at him dubiously.  “I would believe you, sir.  ‘Cept, I saw you just fifteen minutes ‘go outside.”     

 

     Sherlock huffed in exasperation, but continued anyway, “I’m sure you _thought_ you did, but I have been here this whole time.”

 

     “I heard piano playin’ in here, and while I know that you’re an a‘complished violinist-“

 

     “How -?”

 

     “Everyone in the house knows.  Tis all Mrs. Elstmeyer talks ‘bout.  It’s her dearest hope that one day you’ll play with the a’compa’ment of her daughter on the harp, and son on the piano. 

 

     Sherlock’s eyebrows raised to his hairline.  He kicked the door behind him when he heard the girl snicker quietly.  “Do you, uh – do you know what my parents have said about that?”  The maid seemed to have all the other household gossip, why wouldn’t she know the answer, if there was one.

 

     She gave him a knowing grin.  “No.  ‘S far as I know, they haven’t said one way or t’other.”

 

     He wanted to sigh in relief.  Jeremy was bad enough, but Jasmine Elstmeyer was something else entirely.  She was cloyingly sweet, and always acting older than what she was.  Every time she had seen him that day, she had tried to get him alone and kiss him.  It was the main reason he had pointed out to the twins what their mother was up to.  He figured if he pointed out something like that, she would leave him alone.        

 

      Another snicker from behind brought him back around to the matter at hand.  “Yes, well.  I’ll just be talking to my parents about that.  Maybe you can show me the way to where they are?”

 

     “Yes.  I s’pose.  Though I do need to find that girl.  If the Elstmeyers’ find her in here, they’ll have a fit.  They don’t like that she can play so much better than either of those children put together.”  She lowered her voice significantly and came closer as if she had a great secret to tell.  “They say she’s been playing since she was two years old.  Practicing all day long, and her dear papa has to drag her away at the end of the day just to get her to bed.  It’s no wonder she plays so well, and only seven years old to boot.  A right prod’gy, she is.”

 

     Sherlock had to agree, and he felt that he should probably be a little jealous as well.  But the feeling never came.  What he felt in its place was something akin to awe.  Knowing what he did now and after hearing her play earlier, he was nothing short of amazed. 

 

     Something was off about the situation though, like why Molly was here to begin with.  Where was her father or at the very least, her grandmother?  He vaguely remembered an elderly woman promising him cake at a mourning.  He was pretty sure that she had been Molly’s grandmother.

 

     A stable boy entered the room, stopping his questions on his tongue.  “Did you find her, ma’am?” he asked in a rush.  “The Elstmeyers and their guests are starting to gather on the back deck for cake.  They’ll be heading in here shortly after.”

 

     “Oh! No, I haven’t found her ‘t’all.  She’s very clever at hiding, y’know.”  She turned to Sherlock, all manner of gossip forgotten, “If you see a child about yay tall,” she held her hand up at her waist to indicate the girl’s height, “with brown hair, tell her to come to the kitchens.  The Elstmeyers don’t want her about.”

 

     Sherlock acknowledged her with a nod, anger rising in him on Molly’s behalf and all vindictive thoughts from earlier disappearing.  This simply wasn’t fair.  Just because she played the piano better than their children they treated her like she was a second-class citizen.  On top of that, she was so young; even he recognized that someone at the age of seven who played that well _should_ be recognized for their accomplishments and not put down.

 

     As the maid and stable hand left the room, he felt the cabinet behind him push into his leg.  “Whew.  That was close.  Thanks for distracting her.  I hate having to hide from them, but it’s the only way I’m able to practice.”

 

     She looked sad as she said it, and all his questions came tumbling out.  “Why are you here?  Where’s your dad or grandmother?  Why aren’t you with them?”

 

     She stared at him, and he was transferred back to a time when those same eyes had him climbing into a crib and lying beside a small baby to give comfort where the mother no longer could. 

 

     “Why didn’t you ask me where my mother was?”  She asked him slowly.

    

     “Hmm?”

 

     “You asked where my father and grandmother were, but you said nothing about my mother.  Why?”

 

     Sherlock looked at her as if she had grown a second head.  “Well, she’s dead, isn’t she?” he callously answered.

 

     She sharply turned her head away, crossing her arms over her tiny body and then dropping them to her sides quickly.  He heard her mutter, “Yes. Yes, she is,” and when her eyes came back to his, there was pain and fury raging in them.  She clenched her hands into fists, and he wondered if he was going to be in a second fight that day.  Molly took a deep breath and turned away from him, moving toward the door, and muttering just loud enough for him to hear, “I didn’t do it.  Why does everyone have to blame me?”

 

     “Wait!  What?”   Thoroughly confused, Sherlock rushed over and grabbed her shoulders, making her face him completely.  “What are you going on about?” he demanded.

 

     “As if you don’t know!  Everyone is saying it.”

 

      “Saying what?”  Completely exasperated, he gave her a little shake.

 

     “That I killed my mother, of course.  Duh.”  She pulled away from him and moved to the door once more.  “I mean, I didn’t, of course.  How could I?  I was just a baby when she died, but that’s what they’re all saying.  I wish Dad had never brought me here,” the last part was said on a broken whisper.

 

     Her hand was on the doorknob before he came out of his stunned trance, and just as she opened the door, he said, “I was at your mother’s funeral.  You were just a baby.  You were tiny.  That’s how I know about your mum.  I don’t know anything about how she died though.”

 

     He had walked over to her as he was talking and gently took her hand.  It seemed important in some way, that he give comfort to this little girl with the sad brown eyes.  That same compelling feeling that had him climbing into her crib seven years ago, had him coming up with a scheme to get her out of the Elstmeyer’s care.  He knew for a fact that his parents wouldn’t mind her staying with them for the rest of the summer.  Besides, it would give him someone to practice duets with.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and Kudos are love!


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